


When All the Gates Have Closed

by Jellie-Fishing (when_Castiel_falls)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Game of Thrones (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Torture, Spiderpool - Freeform, Spideypool - Freeform, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, mentions of rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/when_Castiel_falls/pseuds/Jellie-Fishing
Summary: Spideypool Game of Thrones AUWade Snow, bastard son of Roose Bolton was captured and tortured by his psychotic half-brother, and after escaping the Dreadfort he starts heading as far South as possible, only stopping in the Riverlands when he stumbles across a handsome young lord wandering in the woods near Pinkmaiden.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I was tossing this idea round my head last night, and I typed up this little prologue while puppysitting for my mum. While this prologue is through Wade's POV, to start things off, the first chapter and probably most of the rest of this will be Peter's POV  
> Oh and I've taken lines from songs by Young the Giant that I'll put at the beginning of each chapter, each line I picked out I think will tie in well to Wade and Peter and their relationship.

_“Life's too short to even care at all oh, I'm losing my mind losing my mind losing control” - Cough Syrup, Young the Giant_

_Clank!_

The sound of the metal gate slamming shut makes him flinch, giving a weak moan. He soon feels heat close to his raw cheek, and squints an eye open, attempting to recoil away from the sickening grin above him.

“Hungry, brother?” He hears Ramsay ask.

He shudders, cold hitting the wounds all over his body, and he looks down to Ramsay’s hands, where he’s holding a hunk of mouldy bread. Ramsay drops it into the pool of semi-dried blood in front of Wade, before he straightens, that shit-eating look still plastered on his face, his eyes twinkling in the light of his current torture.

“Oops,”

There’s no sound of remorse, of course. Ramsay doesn’t feel remorse for a single thing he does, that became apparent to Wade when he had watched his mother sliced to pieces before him.

Wade hadn’t known anything of his father until a little over a month ago, when Roose Bolton had been passing through the village he and his mother lived in. His mother tended the bar, had been doing so for the past twenty years, and when Roose Bolton had passed through Moat Cailin nineteen years earlier, he’d found her pleasurable enough to share his bed for the night.

His mother never attempted to contact him when Wade was born 9 months later, knowing who the Bolton’s were, and preferring to raise her bastard son alone. When Lord Bolton had returned, his newly titled bastard Ramsay at his side, and spotted Wade helping his mother clear tables, he’d left a bag of gold and a grim smile, barely sparing Wade a glance as he carried on.

But Ramsay it seemed, had cared a lot more than their father had. He left with his father of course, but less than a week later he returned, a few twisted face men grabbing Wade’s mother, and before he’d had a chance to even process what was happening, they slammed his head down on a table, Ramsay leaning in to whisper in Wade’s ear “So lovely to meet you brother, your mother really is a beauty, in spite of her age… Shame,”

Wade crunched his eyes shut at the memory, a voice in his head screaming **I’LL KILL YOU YOU SICK FUCK** while he attempted to clear the image of his mother’s skin falling to the floor in chunks, one of Ramsay’s companions laughing as he raped her.

Wade finally opened his eyes again, glaring at the man before him, who was currently sitting on the large wooden table across the room, legs swinging as he crunched down on an apple.

“Shove… it up… your _ass,_ Bolton,” he spat, kicking the bread away, holding in the wince as his flayed foot scraped the stones.

Ramsay tsked at him.

“Really now, brother, that’s all we could spare from the pig slop! You should be thankful I brought you anything,” He jumped from his spot on the table, leaning forward as he approached, and Wade did his best not to flinch, keeping his eyes level with his half-brother’s. It was like looking into a sick mirror, as Ramsay’s eyes were an almost identical blue to his own. He hated having anything in common with this man, but it couldn’t be helped. “Anyway, just thought I’d let you know that you’ll be getting a brief reprieve from our brotherly bonding. Father and I are going to meet my lovely new bride-to-be,” He paused, the smile on his face widening sadistically, “Don’t miss me too much, brother,”

_Clank!_

Wade released the breath he’d been holding.

Ramsay was leaving.

**Now’s our chance.**

_We don’t know how long he’ll be gone for…_

**You wanna stay and find out?**

Wade straightened, trying his best to push the voices back. They’d started not long after he’d been brought to the dungeons under the Dreadfort, pushing themselves to the front of his consciousness after Ramsay had moved the flaying up to his face. It had been excruciating, and it had brought the still-fresh memories of his mother’s gruesome death to the forefront of his mind, until something had obviously snapped.

_Yeah, watching your mother be ripped apart by your psychotic half-brother will do that._

**We don’t have time to keep thinking about this. Get your crusty ass out of this dungeon.**

Wade nodded, pulling his wrists from the shackles that held them. He’d discovered he could come loose a few days earlier, because of the amount of skin and muscle that had been torn from his hands, though having them scrape against the rough iron did nothing to help any sort of healing. He pushed himself away from the wall, stumbling briefly when one foot slipped in the blood below.

There wasn’t much in this cell, besides the various instruments of torture, but Wade’s crumpled and bloodied shirt was still in one corner. He staggered over, picking it up and inhaling sharply as he dragged the rough cotton over his mangled flesh. Wade grabbed one of the long knives from the table as he finally turned to the cell door.

He wouldn’t leave straight away, he didn’t want to risk Ramsay still being nearby. So, he leaned against the door for what seemed like hours, keeping his breathing as steady as possible as he listened for any noise outside. Nothing but the faint noise of dogs barking, horses stamping and the occasional muffled scream. Wade inhaled deeply, clutching the knife tighter.

**Good thing the blacksmith back home taught you how to defend yourself.**

_Old man Freed probably didn’t expect us to be caught in this sort of situation… Probably only taught us in case we got a bit too handsy with the farmer’s daughters and they came after us._

Wade shook his head mumbling a soft “Be quiet,” before he finally clenched his fist around the handle of the cell door.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Well it seems like the only time I'm able and inspired to write is between 12 and 3am, cause I tried for hours earlier tonight and only managed to get about 2 sentences before finally spewing out about 1000 words. I really am enjoying going over this in my head, I just hope it's translating well...  
> Anyhow, read on and enjoy!

_“Go bright light scour the forest through the night searching for a  
Sign of life”_ \- Garands, Young the Giant

It was raining.

Not an uncommon occurrence in the Riverlands, particularly with Winter well on its way. Those Starks sure knew what they were talking about. _Winter is coming._

Peter scoffed to himself, pulling his overcoat closer round himself. _At least I don’t live any further North._ He turned away from the window and back down to his book. One thing he was glad about after moving to Pinkmaiden Castle was the extensive library it possessed. The Piper’s of Pinkmaiden prided themselves on being well-learned, and though Peter was only half-Piper, he was glad for something to keep his mind off things.

Surely if anything were to keep his mind from wandering, it was _The Doom of Valyria._ Right?

He flicked through the pages, stopping every so often to stifle a yawn, vaguely thinking about what the cooks might have around for lunch today.

 _Knock knock knock_.

Peter sighed, lifting his head and murmuring out a “Yes?”

The door opened to reveal one of his Piper cousins, Miles.

He couldn’t hide the smile that spread across his face at the sight of his half-Dornish kin, who shut the door behind him before taking a seat on the arm chair next to Peter’s.

“Hey Pete, whatcha reading?” The younger man poked at the book between them, glancing at the title briefly, crinkling his nose in distaste, “Ugh, history. Boring. How bout we go out for a ride? You’ve barely left the castle since you both moved here, and Aunt May says you’re worrying her, Pete,”

Peter rolled his eyes. “What’s so bad about staying inside, it’s been getting so cold, who even wants to go outside with Winter this close?” He was being mildly untruthful, he loved going outdoors, and even enjoyed the bite of the coming cold on his skin. Made him feel more alive. “And besides, it’s raining Miles, I’d rather not force poor Gwen out in the wet, fussy thing she is,”

Gwen was Peter’s palomino mare, his uncle Ben had given her to him as a yearling to train, and he’d spoiled her rotten, even more so since losing his uncle.

“If that mare of yours is _fussy_ it’s because you treat her like a person and not a steed, Peter,” Miles smirked at Peter’s frown and continued, “Besides, the rain stopped a little while ago, and looks to be clear the rest of the day,”

Peter turned a shocked face to his window again, and, yeah Miles was right, the sky was clear. When had that happened? How long had he been reading?

“C’mon, Pete, you gotta stretch your legs more!” Before Peter could even begin another protest, Miles had grabbed his arm and pulled him up with surprising strength ( _I mean really, the kid is barely 15, how are those stringy arms capable of this level of manhandling?_ ) marching them to and out the door, making it outside the castle in less than a minute, Peter grimacing at any passing servant or family member in an attempt to gain sympathy, to no avail.

Miles finally let go of him as they reached the stables, beelining his own bay gelding, Harry, and yelling over his shoulder, “Don’t take too long saddling up! I want to take you to this little clearing I found a few weeks ago, and it’ll take about an hour’s ride to get there!” Peter mumbled his assent, moving to Gwen’s stable, where she was happily chewing some lucerne, pricking her ears at the sight of her master.

“Heya Gwennie,” Peter whispered as he ducked in next to her, placing a hand on her neck as she pushed her head into his chest. “Sorry, Miles didn’t stop long enough for me to grab you a sweet, I’ll get you something when we get back, alright?” The mare looked miffed, in her own horsey way, snorting in his face before she resumed eating the lucerne. Peter rolled his eyes and began saddling the prissy horse, grateful that she at least stood still.

After a minute the _clop clop_ of hooves made him turn his head as he tightened the girth strap, moving his eyes upwards to Miles, who was already mounted and ready to go, an excited grin making his eyes sparkle. “Yeah, yeah Miles, I’ll be with you in a moment,” He tucked the girth away and adjusted the stirrups before swinging easily up into the saddle, squeezing his legs lightly to move the mare out of her stall. She flicked her tail at the gelding next to her but otherwise was still beneath Peter. “Okay, lead on.”

~~~

Roughly an hour and a half later, they’d made their way to the clearing Miles had been chattering about for most of the ride. They’d alternated between a leisurely walk and the occasional canter (when one of them made a joke that had the other reaching for a smack about the head).

Really, Peter was glad his cousin had decided to get him out of the castle today. While he’d been enjoying his reading, it was so refreshing to be out, the air was crisp and clear, and Peter often took a deep inhale, relishing the smell of petrichor after the brief spell of rain. _Yeah, this is definitely better than_ The Doom of Valyria, he mused.

His life in Pinkmaiden castle had become fairly stale, one day of reading segueing to the next, doing his best to distract from the death of his uncle Ben.

“We’ll stop here for a bit, aye Pete?”

Peter glanced over to Miles, pulling Gwen to a stop next to the other horse, and swung down. He loosened the bit from her mouth but otherwise left her loose. She wouldn’t go far.

He watched as his cousin grabbed at one of the saddle bags attached to Harry, pulling out a couple of wrapped packages, tossing one over his shoulder without looking. Peter caught it with no trouble, smirking as he unwrapped it, revealing a hunk of bread, some sort of dried meat and a bright red apple. He chucked a piece of the jerky in to his mouth as he glanced around the clearing they were in.

It was as if Summer was determined to dig its roots into this particular spot. All the leaves on the trees remained mostly green, and the grass was lush. There was even a pond, with a thin stream trickling fresh water, some birds out still, flitting through the branches and chirruping at the new intruders to their apparent slice of paradise. Peter walked over to a log that protruded almost naturally from the pond and sat, chewing the food slowly as he breathed deep through his nose, smiling at his cousin as he moved to join him on the log.

“Pretty good, hm Pete?” Miles dug his elbow into Peter’s side as he unwrapped his own food, crunching into his apple.

“Yeah, it’s brilliant, Miles. Can almost pretend like Winter _isn’t_ coming, huh?” Miles snorted in response, a bit of juice spitting from his lips when he tried to contain his chortling. “How’d you find it again? Any idea why it’s still so green?”

Miles shrugged, “Was just hunting with father, chased a stag, ended up here. Knew you’d wanna see, before it got much colder and disappeared anyway,” Peter nodded, swallowing down the jerky and ripping off a piece of bread to replace it. “Father supposed it’s so untouched by Winter because of those Old Gods the Northerners always go on about. Says one of the trees here must be one of them creepy-faced things,”

“Really?” Peter straightened, interest piquing, “Any idea where it is?” He’d read about the Old Gods plenty, and the thought of seeing one in person certainly had him excited.

“Nah, I didn’t have time to look last time, father wanted me to stay focused on the hunt. Go look, tell me if you find something, I’ll watch the nags,”

Peter threw his cousin a distasteful look and bit out, “Gwen is not a _nag_ , Miles,”

Miles simply waved him away, his mouth full of apple, so Peter turned with a roll of the eye. He couldn’t contain his grin as he began to move through the trees, running his fingers lightly along the trunks as he passed.

He almost lost himself in simply existing in this little pocket of the world, nearly forgetting why he was walking through the trees, until he finally spotted it. Really, it’s surprising he hadn’t spotted it sooner, with how different in colour the Weirwood was to all the trees around it. He came to a stop before the great white tree, it’s blood red leaves scattered over the branches and the forest floor beneath. The face on the trunk was truly melancholy, and Peter felt a tugging in his chest at the sight.

 _Or maybe you just need to breathe_. He finally let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, so in awe of the ancient thing before him. He continued gazing upon the mournful face of the tree as he kneeled before it. He’d never been taught of the Old Gods by his parents or aunt and uncle, only knew what he’d read in books. Peter felt as if he couldn’t close his eyes as he regarded the Weirwood, even as they started to itch. It seemed disrespectful.

He opened his mouth slightly, before closing again. Was he supposed to pray? What would he pray for? _Would the Old Gods really listen?_

With everything so suddenly still around him, Peter jumped in surprise at the sound of a stick snapping, clutching at his chest.

“Gods! Miles, don’t scare me like tha-” Peter cut himself off when he turned his head and spotted a very tall and non-Miles figure leaning against a nearby oak tree. He immediately tensed, and reached to his side for-

_Dammit!_

He hadn’t grabbed the short sword he usually brought with him when he left the castle. Miles had been too eager for them to head out, and Peter hadn’t even thought of it. He tried not to let panic set in as he cleared his throat. The stranger hadn’t moved since Peter had spotted him, and his cloaked form was leaning quite heavily against the tree.

Peter moved slowly to stand up, trying his best to keep his voice steady as he called out, “Who are you?”

The unknown man adjusted himself, allowing a little of the light filtering through the trees to hit the face under the dark hood and Peter balked at the site.

The man’s face was covered in massive scabs, and dried blood. There seemed to be actual chunks missing from several areas, and his cracked mouth was pulled into a grimace. Only one blue eye was opened, barely, and when the man teetered forward, stumbling on a tree root, Peter moved without thinking.

He was holding the man up by his shoulder, and now that he was closer he could smell him. The metallic odour of blood mixed with the acrid scent of infection, and the man gargled out a moan, bringing an arm up to clutch at Peter’s slim but supportive frame.

“Gods, are you alright? What happened? Where’d you come from, looking like that?” A sense of panic was setting in. He didn’t know who this man was, which these days could only mean trouble. Such a deep sense of distrust ran through the core of Westeros ever since the Hand of the King was executed for conspiring against the throne. And a _lot_ had happened since then.

But Peter couldn’t just leave this man to die.

He shifted himself around, turning so that he slung the injured mans arm over his shoulder and murmured, “Hang on, I’ll get you to my horse,” as he straightened up, letting him lean against him as he moved forward, looking around at the trees and doing his best to remember the way he’d came. The man only grunted in response.

He glanced once more at the Weirwood’s woeful face before leading away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooh Wade seems a little weak-knee'd in the presence of his Petey, hm? ;)  
> lmao for reals tho he's been walking for weeks, hasn't been able to find much to eat, or been able to really bathe properly so... it's really no wonder he's collapsing lmao  
> Okay well, I do wanna just say I'm super thankful for the couple of kudos I've gotten so far, and I hope this chapter has lived up to any and all expectations you've all had! Be sure to leave a review! Oh and I really don't know if I'm gonna have like a set schedule for updates on this, cause I'm kinda just writing it whenever my brain decides to work, and finishing chapters at nicely suspenseful moments c: I'll do my best to be fairly regular though, and will certainly try harder the more kudos and reviews I get ;)


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